


Zen and the Art of Mycroft Maintenance

by voxangelus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Boot Worship, Dom Greg, Leather Kink, M/M, Motorcycles, Paddling, Sub Mycroft, leather daddy greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9515147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/pseuds/voxangelus
Summary: Mycroft buys Greg a new motorcycle as a surprise and pays for it in one way or another.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Leftover prompt from the last round of Come At Once - started it, didn't finish in the 24 hours. It sat on my hard drive for ages, and I dug it out a few weeks ago and got to work. Edited, but unbeta'd - interested parties please apply to my tumblr at foxy-voxy.tumblr.com. 
> 
> The encouragement and camaraderie of the Antidiogenes Club makes me more prolific and a better writer.

Well. That was a problem. In the spot in their garage where Greg usually parked his bike - the one that was aging, had a few dings, but was very reliable (much like the man himself) - there was a brand new bike. A bloody fucking gorgeous one, with every bell and whistle he could ever imagine wanting. He parked his bike alongside and looked over at Mycroft, who was standing near the doorway into the house, looking smug. Greg shook his head as he hopped off his bike. He unfastened his helmet and set it on the seat. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot give that to me. It’s too much. There’s nothing wrong with my bike.” 

“The seat is uncomfortable,” Mycroft said, by way of explanation. “You enjoy having me on the back of it, and when it comes to motorcycle seats, I want my arse to remain unbruised - or to be comfortable when it is bruised.” 

Greg sighed, exasperated. “The seat. You spent an obscene amount of money on a new bike because you didn’t like the seat of mine? Jesus, Mycroft. This thing is probably worth a quarter of my yearly salary. I can’t accept it.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied, from where was leaning against the doorframe. “It’s worth a third of it. And you can accept it, because I’m giving it to you. It was customised just for you, Greg. I can’t possibly take it back.” 

Wasn’t that just like a bloody Holmes? Deciding what he wanted and to hell with anyone else? Mycroft’s brand of generosity was over the top, and Greg found he much preferred when the other man stuck to expensive ties and extravagant dinners out. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you attempting ownership of my soul via ridiculous presents?” 

“I rather thought I had it already due to my prowess in bed,” was the lofty-sounding reply. 

“I think you’ll find it’s the other way around, at least that’s what you were telling me last night,” Greg said, turning back to Mycroft and stepping closer. 

Mycroft backed up, visibly swallowing as he pressed himself against the doorframe. 

Greg advanced, a sharp, predatory smile on his face. “What have we discussed about expensive presents, baby?”

“That they aren’t necessary, Sir,” Mycroft murmured, eyes downcast. 

“Perhaps, then, you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself? Have I missed a special date or an anniversary? It isn’t anywhere near my birthday, either.” 

“I don’t want nor mean to attempt to purchase your affections. I know they’re freely given,” Mycroft pleaded. “I merely wish for you to have the best I can give, to care for you in my own way. Please, Greg. You’ve done so much for me. I know you don’t want nor need repayment and it’s not offered as such. I merely think you deserve anything I can provide.” 

And what was Greg meant to say to that? Mycroft did take excellent care of him, even if Greg felt he himself didn’t do all that much in comparison. Mycroft had as difficult a time quieting his mind as his brother did - but instead of turning to narcotics, Mycroft had instead turned to discreet and professional Doms. When that had ceased to be of use, he’d turned to Greg. Greg had been surprised when Mycroft had shown an interest in him -- in a relationship at all, really, but especially in him -- but two years on he was hopelessly in love and happier than he’d ever been. And didn’t that say it all? Mycroft could afford to spoil him, and it made him happy to do so - so Greg would be gracious and accept it. 

“You ridiculous man,” he said, leaning in to give Mycroft a short, sweet kiss. “Don’t you know how happy you make me just because you exist? I’ll keep the new bike. Let’s take her out for a spin, yeah? Get out of the city a little, get some dinner?” 

Mycroft sighed, and Greg could all but feel his relief. 

“I would love that. Shall we go upstairs and change? I’m afraid there may be one more surprise waiting,” Mycroft admitted, a sheepish sort of grin on his face. “Don’t worry, I haven’t done anything with your leathers -- but I did purchase some for myself since you gave me permission a while ago.” 

Fuck. Dinner and a ride might just have to be postponed. Well. A ride on the bike, at least. He had indeed been after Mycroft to get at least a leather jacket for protection on their tandem rides. Although nobody looking at them once would think anything untoward of a man wearing a leather jacket on a motorcycle, his boy had been reluctant to introduce the world at large to that aspect of their relationship, preferring to keep his collar, cuffs, and harness for private enjoyment only. The thought of him clad head to toe was highly goddamned distracting. Oh, all right, it wasn’t quite protocol for Mycroft to buy them himself without at least having Greg along, but very little concerning his relationship with Mycroft really stuck to formal protocol. 

“I’m not sure that if I see you in them that I won’t want to peel them right off again and show you my appreciation,” he murmured into Mycroft’s ear. “Are they the looser sort that go over your clothes, or the snug, tight ones that fit right next to your skin and would show off those gorgeous legs?” 

Mycroft hummed, considering the question. “I suppose you’ll just have to come upstairs and see, won’t you, Sir?” He twisted away from Greg and walked away into the house, toward the stairs and their bedroom. Greg glanced heavenward for a moment, as if asking for strength from some unnamed power, and followed. 

On the bed, there was a pile of leather. Greg crowded up behind his boy to whisper in his ear. “Put them on, Mycroft,” he said, good as an order. “I’m not sure you’ll be decent enough to leave the house in them, so I’ll need to inspect the fit first.” 

He heard Mycroft swallow, and Greg bit gently at the side of his neck, feeling him shudder.   
“Yes, Sir,” Mycroft whispered, reaching for the pile. 

Greg crossed the room to the armchair and sat down, gesturing to Mycroft to get on with it. He sat back and loosened his tie, getting comfortable. This was familiar territory for them, and Greg admired the grace and elegance Mycroft displayed even when disrobing. He never tired of the sight of his boy’s body, pale and lanky and gorgeous. Mycroft shook out the trousers and oh, fuck. They were close-fitting, more of a racing style, black, with deep green detailing. Greg watched as Mycroft pulled the snug trousers on and carefully zipped them up. They fit like a bloody glove, and Greg then realized that Mycroft had gone and had fucking bespoke leathers made.

“Jesus. Turn around for me, baby,” Greg said, not bothering to conceal the lascivious gleam in his eye. 

“Are they to your satisfaction, Sir?” Mycroft inquired, doing the requisite turn. 

“Fuck yes, they are,” Greg said, low and almost growling. “You look fucking edible. I can’t decide whether I want you to finish putting them on so we can take the bike out, or strip them off you so you can ride me.” He reached down and adjusted himself in his trousers. 

Mycroft crossed the room, sinking to his knees in front of Greg. “Or I could take care of you now before we take the bike out. May I, Sir? Please, may I suck your cock?? 

Fuck, he loved when Mycroft got on his knees and begged for his cock. It was a heady thing, knowing he had that power and was trusted to wield it. “When we get back, I’m going to peel you out of those trousers and rock your fucking world,” Greg promised, sliding his hand into Mycroft’s hair and pulling him forward. “So yes, boy, you had better suck me off.” 

Mycroft whimpered at the hand in his hair and went straight for Greg’s belt, getting it unbuckled quickly so he could get to his prick, pulling it free from Greg’s trousers and pants. He was clearly in no mood to tease and that was good because Greg wasn’t either. He slid his hand down the shaft and followed with his mouth, falling on back on well-honed technique that would have Greg off in mere minutes. 

“I fucking love how observant you are, Mycroft, using that big brain of yours to do what you’re best at. You were fucking made to suck my cock, weren’t you? Did you think about this the entire time you were buying the bike and the leathers? Thinking of getting on your knees in them and giving me your mouth to use? I bet you were, boy, the way you’re gagging for it.” He smirked as Mycroft moaned in agreement around him, looking up at him mischievously. 

“Such a spoilt fucking brat,” Greg said fondly. “I let you get away with far too much.” 

A wink and Mycroft’s nose pressing into his groin was the only response he got and he was just fine with that, fuck. He tugged at Mycroft’s hair and bucked up into his mouth. “Going for the world record, are we, boy?” he managed to gasp as he felt his bollocks draw up tight as he came in Mycroft’s mouth. 

Licking his lips as he sat back on his heels, Mycroft grinned. “Perhaps I’ll have to look that up later, Sir. If there’s an official record, I mean.” 

“And then you’ll see if you can beat it,” Greg said, amused. “Very well, I sacrifice myself to the cause.” 

“I knew you would see things my way, Sir. Please, won’t you change so we can go out on the bike?” asked Mycroft, looking up through his lashes like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Go get my boots, baby,” Greg said, pushing at Mycroft’s chest with the toe of his shoe. Mycroft got to his feet immediately and left the room to go downstairs for the boots, and Greg went to the closet to change into his gear. Snug denims, a worn-in tee, and his chaps pulled up over the jeans and buckled securely. He put his leather jacket on and sat back down to wait for Mycroft to bring the boots. 

He didn’t have long to wait, as Mycroft returned post-haste, Greg’s boots in one hand and his bootblack kit in the other. The boots were simple in style, sturdy, the second pair he’d had just the same, although the first pair had been in his slightly more reckless youth. This pair was finally getting properly worn-in as far as comfort went, but Mycroft’s polishing and care had kept them looking sharp and he hadn’t regretted switching back to a style with laces yet. 

Greg beckoned to Mycroft as he stood in the doorway. “That was quick.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mycroft said, walking over to Greg. He set things down and went to fetch a small bowl of clean water before kneeling in front of him again. “May I begin?” 

“By all means,” Greg said, sitting back in the chair, utterly relaxed. He watched as Mycroft opened his kit, readying the things he would need. Mycroft carefully removed the laces from the boots, setting them to the side so they wouldn’t get polish and oil on, and then worked the boots onto Greg’s feet. The well-rehearsed movements were almost hypnotic; Greg knew what each step was and what would follow, but watching Mycroft work was a pleasure all its own. He hummed contentedly as Mycroft ran his hands over the leather, allowing his hands and Greg’s body heat to warm the material before he took out the tin of saddle soap to begin cleaning. 

Mycroft worked in small circles as he soaped the leather in sections with a soft, damp brush. Greg watched. He never tired of observing his boy at work doing something he enjoyed and was good at. He used enough pressure that the bristles didn’t tickle Greg through the leather, his movements sure and precise to Greg’s eye. He wiped each section clean with a soft cloth as he finished, going back with a toothbrush after he was done to be sure he’d gotten the soap out of all the nooks and crannies of the boot, then repeated the process on the other boot. He sprinkled water onto the boots from time to time to keep the leather from drying out and the soap working. Greg knew how relaxing Mycroft found this task, and he was able to watch the tension of the outside world melt away from Mycroft’s face and the set of his shoulders the longer he worked. 

Finished with the soap, Mycroft put it away and took out the leather conditioner, simply pouring some into his hand to apply to the boots. He worked over each boot carefully, massaging the substance into the leather to restore its supple, soft nature after the thorough cleaning. He could be very quick with this step if time called for it, but it was clear to Greg he was taking his sweet time today, making sure they both enjoyed the task. He adored having Mycroft serve him in this manner, finding it a breathtakingly intimate and romantic interaction that left them feeling close and connected; an excellent prelude to an evening out. 

Finally, Mycroft wiped the excess conditioner off with a clean cloth, laced the boots back up, and tied the laces securely, ending the service with a kiss to the toe of each boot. 

“Beautiful job as usual, baby,” Greg said. “Now finish getting dressed so we can go. I’m getting hungry.” 

After putting his kit back together and setting it aside, Mycroft went to the bed and put the rest of his gear on - a snug black long-sleeved tee, and the jacket that matched the trousers. The slim-fitting gear accented his body and suited his style, Greg thought. Once he had the entire ensemble on, Greg had to admit it was an enticing picture. Different, certainly, than the traditional gear he himself favoured, but no less attractive for it. 

Mycroft stood up from the bed where he’d sat to get his boots on. “It’s Friday. My schedule is remarkably clear for tomorrow. Shall I pack us a bag, and we can find somewhere to stay for the night wherever our little excursion takes us?” 

“You’re in a romantic mood, aren’t you?” Greg asked, rising from the armchair. He drew Mycroft into his arms and kissed him briefly. “I think that’s a great idea. Go ahead. I’m going to go around the block a few times, get used to the balance of the new bike before I get you on the back of it. Just come out front when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.” 

“Lovely. The keys are on the kitchen island,” Mycroft said, stealing another kiss before he let Greg go. 

He had been itching to get his hands on the bike since he’d seen it earlier, but Mycroft had distracted him sufficiently for a little while. The time for distraction had passed, though, and Greg was eager to get familiar with his new toy. He clomped down the stairs like a kid on Christmas morning, detouring through the kitchen to snag the keys before he went down to the garage, hitting the button to open the overhead door as he passed.

The sight of the bike didn’t take his breath away as much as the sight of Mycroft in his new riding gear did - but it was a close thing. God, it really was fucking gorgeous. He’d never had a brand new bike before, just a series of used ones. And he’d noticed the logo - of course Mycroft would buy him a BMW. Built for comfort and luxury, but still a formidable machine. LIkely tricked out with every option available, as well. He’d probably still ride his Honda for commuting in the city, but this was going to be excellent for tandem rides and getting out of town. He grabbed their helmets and some gear from his old bike, putting his own on and tucking Mycroft’s into one of the side compartments. 

Greg swung his leg over the bike and settled into the seat with a satisfied sigh. Yeah, it definitely was comfortable. The suspension responded like a dream, too. Nothing left to do now but start her up. He slid the key into the ignition and turned it, shivering as the bike rumbled to life between his legs. He revved the bike and slowly drove out of the garage and into the drive, waiting until a car passed so he could pull into the road. It definitely had more power than the Honda, so he was careful his first time around the block, getting used to how it responded and how much gas he had to give it to get what he wanted. By the time Mycroft appeared outside the house, he’d been around the block about ten times and was eager to move on from that limited proving ground. He pulled into the drive so Mycroft could hop on, waiting until he had his helmet on and was settled securely before heading back out into traffic. 

He wasn’t sure what direction he wanted to head to get out of the city - but this time of day on a Friday, all the options were about the same as far as traffic went. There was a restaurant they’d both enjoyed down in Haywards Heath, and a charming little B&B or three there as well, so he headed for the A-23 south. Traffic always seemed less annoying on a bike in any case, and with Mycroft pressed up close behind him, it was certainly a pleasant ride. 

It took about an hour and a half to reach the restaurant he had in mind, and it didn’t seem like nearly long enough on the new bike once he pulled into the parking area and turned the bike off.   
He pulled his helmet off and twisted around to look at Mycroft. “Well, is the seat more comfortable?” he asked, winking. 

“It’s heavenly. I don’t think I’d complain at all even if you bruised my arse up properly,” Mycroft replied, unfastening his own helmet. “And I did pack a few things you may be interested in utilizing to ensure such an outcome.” He gracefully dismounted from the bike, waiting for Greg to do so, as well.   
“I can’t decide whether you’ve been a very bad boy or a very good one,” said Greg, making sure the kickstand was secure before getting off the bike himself. “I suppose I’ll have to decide later. But for now, dinner. I’ve worked up a healthy appetite this evening.” 

 

A delicious dinner and dessert later, they checked into an inn they’d been to before that happily had vacancies. Mycroft didn’t often go in for spontaneity like this, and so Greg had learned to take advantage of and welcome it when it happened. They secured a small cottage near the back of the property. It offered more privacy than a room in the main building would, but was still plenty close enough to walk in for what Greg recalled was a really good breakfast.

“I thought we might want something more secluded,” Greg said, as he unlocked the cottage door and pushed it open, gesturing to Mycroft that he should go inside. “Depending on what you've packed in that bag, things could get loud - and I wouldn't want to disturb the neighbours through a thin wall.” 

“There’s nothing too unusual in the bag. I did bring my favourite paddle, though,” Mycroft replied, walking into the cottage and putting the bag down on the quilt-covered bed. He turned and looked at Greg. “I hope you’ll consider using it on me tonight, Sir.” 

Greg closed the door and flipped the lock. “Your favourite paddle, hmm? You really do want to put that new bike seat to the test, don’t you? How long has it been since I gave you a proper paddling, Mycroft?” He crossed the room, right into Mycroft’s personal space. To his credit, Mycroft didn’t step back, but stayed right where he was.

“It’s been at least a fortnight, Sir. I can barely remember what it feels like to have my arse bruised by you,” Mycroft said, a hint of a pout on his lips. 

“Then it’s my solemn duty to remind you of that feeling, boy,” said Greg, reaching around Mycroft’s body to grab his arse with both hands. “Can’t have you forgetting who you belong to, after all. Strip.” He stepped back, going to rifle through the bag while Mycroft got on with removing his leathers and boots. 

Oh, Mycroft had packed some interesting things. The paddle, of course - studded leather that packed a wallop and made the most delicious sounds - and the dual doeskin floggers. A silicone bit gag, a mid-sized plug, a bundle of rope, and Mycroft’s cuffs and collar rounded out the toys. He retrieved the collar, leaving the rest for the moment to watch Mycroft disrobe. There was something about seeing all that pale, freckled skin revealed as the clothes came off that just did it for him. 

“On your knees, baby,” he murmured, collar in hand. 

Mycroft complied silently, hands behind his back and head bowed. God, he was beautiful like this, silent and waiting at Greg’s mercy. Greg walked around him in a circle, tracing his fingertips along Mycroft’s shoulders, up his neck, and into his hair. Mycroft sighed with pleasure as Greg scraped his fingernails lightly across his scalp for a moment before slipping the collar into place, buckling it securely. 

Greg hooked a finger into the ring on the front of the collar and tugged. “Up. Grasp the footboard and bend over,” he ordered, leading Mycroft where he wanted him to go. Mycroft obeyed without hesitation, getting to his feet and following Greg to the end of the bed, where he bent over and held on to the footboard. Greg took a moment to adjust his position, widening his stance a bit, then stepped back to silently look Mycroft over, paddle in hand. He knew that would make Mycroft squirm in nervous anticipation, and he liked waiting for that before he got started.

Greg was stood there, arms crossed over his chest when Mycroft dared a glance over his shoulder. “Turn around, boy. On my time and not a second before,” Greg warned. Mycroft turned his head back with a quiet sound of assent, and Greg could see his fingers flexing on the footboard of the bed. So impatient, but Mycroft had been right - it had been far too long since they’d made time for a drawn-out session. Greg adjusted his grip on the paddle and brought it down across the meatiest part of Mycroft’s arse, quick and sharp but without much force, wrenching a drawn-out moan from him. 

“Tell me, Mycroft - is that what you were looking for?” Greg asked, waiting for a response. 

“I was looking for more than one swat, Sir,” Mycroft replied, cheeky. 

“Were you, now? I seem to recall that. Better hang on tight, then.” Greg drew the paddle back and struck him again, harder this time, then waited just until he saw Mycroft opening his mouth again and brought the paddle down a third time. From there, he kept on with it, fully in control and enjoying both the euphoria that came from wielding the paddle, and watching the skin of Mycroft’s arse and upper thighs as they turned from pale pink to deep red, with darker patches here and there. He listened carefully to the sounds Mycroft made in case of potential danger, but he heard nothing that concerned him. He knew exactly what he was doing. By the time he put the paddle down, his shirt was damp with sweat and he was riding an endorphin high. Mycroft was covered in a sheen of perspiration as well, as much from holding still as from taking the paddling and the pleasure-pain sensation that came with it. 

He went over and gently pried Mycroft’s fingers from the footboard, helping him to stand up slowly, as he’d been in that position for a while. Mycroft was also, Greg knew from experience, likely to be deep down into subspace with the delayed reactions that usually accompanied that for him.

Mycroft snuffled and rubbed his damp, tear-stained cheeks on Greg’s shirt, clinging to him as they stood there. “Thank you, Sir,” he muttered. “Is it going to bruise?” 

Greg chuckled quietly, kissing the side of Mycroft’s head. “You were so good for me, staying so still. It’s already colouring up, baby. You’re going to really feel it in the morning, just like you wanted to.” 

“Mmm. Good, Sir. Feel it all week, most likely,” Mycroft murmured. 

“Every time you move in a meeting with some stuffed shirt or another, you’re going to feel these marks I gave you and think of me,” Greg replied. He slid his hand over Mycroft’s arse and squeezed. “And you’ll still keep a straight face, because you’re utterly brilliant at dissembling.” 

Mycroft moaned, as much from the teasing praise as Greg’s hand fondling his bruised ass. “I always think of you, Sir, even when you haven’t given me bruises to remind me to whom I belong,” he said, nuzzling into Greg’s neck and pressing lazy kisses there. 

“Promised you I was gonna rock your world, didn’t I, baby?” Greg asked, putting his other hand into Mycroft’s hair at the nape of his neck. “Do you feel it’s been rocked?” He tugged at his hair, pulling him back so he could see his face, making Mycroft whine in protest. Poor lamb, blissed out and just wanting to be close, but Greg had questions he wanted answered. 

“You’ve rocked it quite sufficiently, Sir... but earlier you said you were, were, tempted to peel my leathers off and have me ride you before we even left the house,” Mycroft said, speaking so fast he tripped over his words. “May I? Please? Or you can have me any way you like. I need it. Need you.”

Greg’s answer was to crush his lips to Mycroft’s, biting at his lower lip and licking into his mouth with a savage growl. He manhandled him over to the bed, letting go long enough to turn him around and push him down to the bed on his belly with one hand, reaching for the lube with another. “Stay,” he demanded, although he wasn’t met with any resistance whatsoever; when Mycroft was far gone enough to beg, he was committed to what he’d asked for. He coated his fingers in slick and pressed them to Mycroft’s hole, starting to work him open. He didn’t meet with much resistance, which made him smirk remembering what they’d been up to the night before. He scissored and flexed his fingers, taking his sweet time as Mycroft whined and whimpered beneath him, crying out as Greg grazed his prostate now and again. When he was satisfied with his prep, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside and shoved his jeans and chaps down his thighs, letting his cock bounce free. 

“You can ride me in the morning, baby,” Greg said, grasping Mycroft’s hips and tugging him up on his knees. “I don’t think you’d be coordinated enough right now.” 

“Issalright. This’s nice,” Mycroft muttered, his voice slurred and muffled as his face was mostly buried in the duvet. “Fuck me, Sir?” 

“Impatient,” Greg scolded, as he spread lube over his cock and positioned himself, pushing into Mycroft in a slow, steady slide. Tight, hot, slick - yeah, those adjectives described the sensation, but Greg was beyond mere words at the moment. Mycroft’s bruised ass was all but radiating heat and he was making the sweetest little noises as Greg pushed in. He paused for a moment where he was pressed up close behind, then tightened his grip on Mycroft’s hips. He dug his thumbs into spots that were beginning to bruise, prompting a gasp and whine from Mycroft. “Greedy little masochist,” Greg murmured, and moved. He wasn’t in any hurry now that he was exactly where he wanted to be. 

There had been many times when he’d tied Mycroft up or cuffed him to the bed and had his way with him for hours, challenging himself on how long he could last. Tonight, though? Tonight they were both tired from the week’s work; thus, he was aiming for slow and sensual rather than lengthy torture. He leaned over Mycroft’s back to speak quietly near his ear. “You’ve been my good boy tonight, baby. You can come whenever you’re ready, yeah? No need to ask me first.” 

He got a positive-sounding mutter in reply and kissed under Mycroft’s ear in response. He usually made Mycroft work for it in this position, but his boy was so far down at the moment that didn’t seem fair. “Hang on, love,” he urged, as he started moving again, fucking Mycroft with long, deep strokes and putting his hands all over his bruised ass as he did so. It was only a handful of strokes before he felt Mycroft clenching around him as he cried out and came. Greg fucked him through it, chasing his own climax and finding it not long after. He stayed for a moment, catching his breath, before pulling out. He guided Mycroft to lie on his side and sat down on the bed next to him, rubbing his arm. 

“There’s a big tub in the ensuite. Think you can stay awake long enough for a bath so we’re not all sticky in the morning?” 

Mycroft blinked up at him and nodded. “Sounds wonderful. Stay here a minute, please?” he asked. 

“As long as you need me to, baby,” Greg promised.


End file.
